


Pound of Flesh

by bathsheba78 (78bathsheba)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Consensual self-harm, F/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/78bathsheba/pseuds/bathsheba78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My body sings for him, longs for him, like a lover for her beloved, like a flagellant for the lash.</p>
<p>[Disclaimer: the characters are not mine]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pound of Flesh

They tell me I could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him. But they're wrong. I deserve him. I deserve this. 

The hijacking taught him that I was a mutt, destructive and dangerous, and that the only gift I had was for death. When he lifted the veil of the tracker jacker venom through sheer force of will, it took along with it his illusions of my goodness and my worth. He still loved me, of course, because what is Peeta without Katniss? He exists to love me. He's loved me for so long that it's an inextricable part of his being. He wouldn’t have survived either Snow or his mother if he didn’t have the idea of me to provide hope, and escape.  
And what was I without Peeta? If he exists to love me, then I exist because of his love. Without him, I would have been just another Seam brat succumbing to starvation. I would be just another Victor, hollow and scarred. 

\--- 

Haymitch rises slowly to his feet, all traces of drunkenness burned away by the dawning realization of the truth. He unceremoniously grabs the hem of my skirt and pulls it up, staring at the neat rows of cuts slicing the the insides of my thighs; the scars he caught sight of as my skirt flew around my legs when Peeta twirled me about in a moment of playful dance. 

"What...?" he stutters. He grabs my arm and roughly pulls my shirt off, ripping the buttons so that they clatter foolishly to the ground, and I’m left standing in a thin camisole. He stares at the scars disfiguring my back, the pockets of missing flesh from the scourge, the burn marks. "What does this mean, Katniss?" He shakes me violently, as if doing so will jog my mind into change. "Is he having flashbacks? Is he hurting you?" 

I gaze silently back at Haymitch, and he flinches as if I'd struck him, drawing his breath in with a hiss. "Sweetheart—are you letting him?" 

"This is what we do. This is what we are, Haymitch." I say with slow deliberation, the way you would speak to a frightened animal or young child. "This isn’t the hijacking. This is…penance for all I've destroyed." I shrug. 

He sputters in disbelief. "What are you two playing at?" 

Peeta stands slowly, his face expressionless. His gaze moves from me to Haymitch. Haymitch turns to him. "You monster. You fucking son of a bi--." 

Peeta closes the distance between them with one smooth motion, and before I can do more than blink, he has his large hands wrapped around Haymitch's throat, pinning him against the wall and a foot off the ground so that his ever-increasing struggle is useless. 

Peeta is so strong. We forget that sometimes, lost in the gentleness of that smile, the golden words from those lips. We forget too that he was barely more than a boy when we were Reaped. His growth was stunted and delayed by malnutrition and the physical and emotional stresses of the Games and the Rebellion, but after six months back in Twelve, with a steady supply of food and his physical recovery going well, he shot up and filled out, his body making up for lost time. Peeta is now larger than life: a god, a juggernaut, golden as always but taller, broader, and stronger than any normal man—as befits the Mockingjay’s lover. 

He easily lifts Haymitch and carries him to the door. "This is what we are, Haymitch." Peeta repeats calmly before closing the heavy door and turning the locks. He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, then turns to move upstairs. 

First there is silence. Then I hear Haymitch at the front door, his voice growing frantic. And then he's banging on the door. And then he's hurling himself against it. I make my unhurried way upstairs to our darkened bedroom and close the door, muffling the sounds of Haymitch's shouts and the thuds of his body against the solid wood downstairs. As I strip off my clothing and fold them into a neat pile on my dresser, I hear the bedroom door swing open. I turn to watch Peeta enter, his massive body blocking nearly all the light leaking in from the hall, so that all I see is his dark silhouette ringed by a corona of light. I gaze at him silently; I can't see his face, but I can make out every inch of his naked, thickly muscled body, perfect in every way, from his prosthetic leg to the ropes of scars that criss-cross his skin.  
His hand twitches, and light catches on the knife in his right hand. My body sings for him, longs for him, like a lover for her beloved, like a flagellant for the lash. I am so imperfect, full of gluttony, lust, pride, wrath, and death, and I want to be rid of it all. Even if Peeta has to cut it from my flesh. 

He learned things at the Capitol about truth and torture, and how blood and flesh are the only currencies worth spending. He learned about loneliness and despair. He learned that love and fear are sisters—they cannot be separated. He also learned the truth: I’m no mutt, but I am destructive and dangerous, and gifted at death. I'm a hunter; death is my trade. And so he learned his true place: by my side, gentling me and making me better. Lover. Teacher. Confessor. Savior. 

I smile gently at him, full of love and gratitude. I am not afraid. 

I deserve this.

**Author's Note:**

> Abuse and self-harm are never ok. If you need help, pleasepleaseplease don't stop until you find it.
> 
> bathsheba78 . tumblr . com  
> (remove spaces)


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